“Don’t you have to go and accept a prize or something? You don’t want to be late.”
“Yeah. I thought you two would blow past us. I kinda wish you had. It would have been a great comeback story.”
“Things change,” I said, struggling to keep the smile alive on my lips when I realized I’d quoted Pietr.
“You total y deserved the win.”
She smiled and headed toward the waiting judges.
The medics announced what I’d been betting on. “She’l be stiff, a little bruised, but other than that, she’s fine.”
They eased me into the truck, and Dad got us home quickly. The whole way I watched the side-view mirror, wondering why we hadn’t been fol owed—hoping I was wrong about the men lurking in the Golden Jumper’s crowd.
* * *
At home I pul ed up Google. If I was going to deal with Russian Mafia members, I wanted to know something about them. This time I’d gotten lucky.
Not surprisingly, Russian Mafia members looked like many men. It was like Nickolai had said, many of them started as good men—military men—who returned home from war to find the promises their government made weren’t kept. Disil usioned and without support, they turned to the streets for survival.
The mob took them in. Trained them and gave them new orders. They were to have no family outside the mob. No affiliations. No connections. What they had, they took. In the mob there was only honor in what I’d been taught was dishonest dealing. Men who once protected Russia now carved her apart because they didn’t see another choice.
And now they were here.
I wanted to see pictures—were there some I’d recognize? But my search produced a whole other world of images. A world fil ed with nearly as much ink as blood. Tattoos branded mafiosos as participants in Russia’s underworld.
Even the saber marking the ful -blood Rusakovas was a military insignia and an increasingly common tattoo for Mafia men in America. They cal ed themselves “werewolves”—human and slyly unnoticed by day; they reveled in people presuming them monsters by night.
Seated before my computer I was astonished by the life stories that could be read in a mobster’s tattoos. Each spire on a church represented a murder committed. A spiderweb il ustrated being tangled up tattoos. Each spire on a church represented a murder committed. A spiderweb il ustrated being tangled up in addiction. A pair of stars on their chest or knees meant they were captains in the Mafia’s own military.
My stomach queasy, I shut down my computer. To go from being protectors of a people to their biggest internal threat … And to realize they’d been forced in that direction … I wasn’t sure what was more disturbing. But I was beginning to realize choices weren’t merely black and white. We al muddled through various shades of gray.
And too often the most difficult decisions were based on survival.
* * *
Unfortunately the end of the weekend didn’t guarantee the next week would be an improvement at al .
The Rusakovas scouted and Cat told me how they continual y came up empty. Pietr told me nothing. I pored over map after map of Junction, but nowhere seemed suitable for hiding a werewolf.
Monday we sat on the bleachers in the gymnasium for class pictures. Tuesday the school mourned the loss of another student to suicide and Derek was down another friend. Noticing he wasn’t in school, I decided to make it the first time I cal ed him.
“Hey,” he said. Cheerful y.
I paused. “Hey. You weren’t in school today.”
“Did you miss me?” His smile was audible.
“I thought—I’m sorry. I’m sorry about Mike.”
The other end of the line went silent. “Oh. Yeah,” he said final y. “He was a good footbal player.”
“It must be hard … losing a friend.”
Again I was faced with silence. I waited.
“Umm, yeah. I guess it al got to be too much,” Derek said, somber.
Got to be too much? What? The Mike I knew was always joking, laughing. House near the Hil , two parents and a younger sibling. Decent grades, too, if I recal ed correctly. Of course, Mike wasn’t in my circle of friends. So I didn’t know him much at al , real y. I paused, straining for some answer I wasn’t getting on the phone.
“Yeah. It sucks,” Derek concluded, his voice grave. “So how was your day?” he asked, his tone brightening.
Uneasy, I made smal talk until I could find an excuse to get off the phone.
* * *
Wednesday we got our class photos. Sophia held hers, puzzling over something, her face fierce.
“You look beautiful in it,” I assured. “Picture perfect.”
Startled, she hissed, “Mine’s so blurry.” She squinted.
“Real y? Lemme see.” I took the photo and peered at her again. My lips tugged together and I licked them. “Blurry?”
“Maybe it’s al ergies,” she said, taking the picture back. She rubbed her eyes.
“It stil looks blurry?”
“In lots of places.” Her mouth pressed into a pale, thin line. “It’s not blurry at al , is it, Jessie?”
“No.”
“Crap.” She jammed the photo back into its manila envelope.
“Soph—what’s going on? You won’t do the newspaper photos, you clear out your locker, and—” I balked, remembering the brainstormed list with its barely hidden message.
The crowd of kids passing from class to class had thinned, but Sophia looked frantic about being asked so openly.
Too soon the tardy bel would ring. Why did I always have to ask hard questions between classes?
“Into the girls’ bathroom with you.” I guided her down the hal way, shouldering the door open. “You’re freaking me out. The photo’s fine. So what’s wrong? Are your eyes giving you trouble? Do you need to see a doctor?”
She laughed, and bumps rose on my arms. “A doctor won’t help—maybe a witch doctor.” She giggled.
“If it was my vision … My eyes are definitely giving me trouble.” She stepped away from me long enough to check each stal until she was satisfied we were alone.
Feeling she didn’t mean exactly what she said, I asked the next strange question. “Remember when we brainstormed that article and Derek and Jack came into the teachers’ lounge?”
“I remember I did most of the brainstorming.”